


Enmyria Today

by gwyllion



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Character Study, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-27
Updated: 2017-09-27
Packaged: 2018-12-26 17:26:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12063657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyllion/pseuds/gwyllion
Summary: Enmyria remembers her name.





	Enmyria Today

**Author's Note:**

> Enmyria Today was written for the Merlin Canon Fest 2017. It is a missing scene featuring the female swordswoman of Alvarr’s camp in The Witch’s Quickening. Thanks to my wonderful cheer-reader, G, who helps me so much with her high praise and critical eye!

Ayla…

Sarka…

Bronwen…

You don’t know which name Alvarr will call you today.

You stand on the hillside, your sword in its scabbard, the blade always sharp and ready. You wait for Alvarr to make his decision. The wind gathers water from the river below and whips spikes of chilled fog across the cobblestones of the city. Beneath the bridge, the river churns with whitecaps. The reflection of candlelight gleams in the pools of rain that fell on the cobbles last night. You shiver inside your scrap of a tunic that itches like the nettles in the fields beyond Camelot.

Alvarr has a plan to familiarize himself with the workings of the city, the king’s guard, a stolen crystal.

The bridge takes the brunt of the weather, but this is where Alvarr decides their luck might change today. He doesn’t seem to mind the cold and the damp. He wraps his scarf firmly around his neck and blows a breath into his fingers. They poke like fork tines from his holey gloves.

You follow him down the muddy trail that leads to the bridge below.

At the edge of the horizon, the sun fights to burn through the morning fog. The sky will soon be light enough for the citizens of Camelot to awaken in their beds. They’ll fill their bellies with hot porridge. Their pudgy fingers will stab at the meats and cheeses. The castle-dwellers will heap their plates in gluttony.

You can’t remember the last time you ate a hot meal. The crumbs from your aunt’s table last night don’t count. Despite your hunger, you simply picked at the sticky potato dumpling, hoping to find some pork inside. By the time you and Alvarr arrived at the table, the turnips had grown cold and the others had drained the pitcher of milk.

A knight’s trumpet announces the change of guard as a damp morning dawns over Camelot.

Without any merchants yet in sight, you sit on the wet ground, the rain darkening your tattered clothing where it absorbs the water. A grey owl perches on Alvarr’s right shoulder. He keeps it in a closet at your aunt’s cottage where the bird claws and pecks at the wooden gate that prevents its escape. A chain binds it to Alvarr’s wrist. Sometimes, the owl flaps it wings, sending a swirl of leaves and feathers through the marketplace. It never tries to free itself from Alvarr’s chain. It’s as if the owl knows it can’t sail into the lofty heights above the slate roofs of the town, beyond the spires of the castle.

You and the owl have that much in common.

You know well enough to stay away from the owl’s talons, curled like sweet rolls, but more deadly, just like your sword. Alvarr feeds the owl bits of meat from his pocket. Its ragged beak gobbles down the morsels of kibble. You tasted it one day, when Alvarr wasn’t looking and a piece fell to the ground. Crawling across the cobblestones, you hid the treasure in your hand until a rush of village children gathered to admire the owl. You pushed the morsel past your lips, a secret treasure on your tongue.

It tasted like dirt.

Viviana…

Rowena…

Eva…

Alvarr shoves you, wanting you to walk faster, but he doesn’t call you by name. The sun that promised warmth and light has lost its battle with the fog. You hunker down on the bridge, keeping yourself well below the stonework so the wind stops blowing your hair into your mouth. You tear a loose thread from your tunic and use it to bind your hair atop your head.

Above you, the castle walls reach heavenward. The cold stone skin of mottled grey resembles your own living skin a little too much.

A family approaches Alvarr. With a heavy boot, he kicks at your knee to make your stand. Palms flat against the cold cobbles, you push yourself upright. Your back aches for one so young. The labour of practising with your sword and fighting Alvarr’s enemies has made you strong, but tired. A half-moon of filth decorates each of your fingernails.

You watch the family as they approach.

From a distance, the father points at the owl and nudges his wife’s arm.

“I want to see,” the daughter says. “Please, Daddy, can I see the owl?”

You envy the daughter who wears a woven cloak with pockets large enough to hold a thousand gold coins. Her cheeks glow with the colour of a spring sunset. The hat made of rabbit fur keeps her ears warm, keeps her hair from blowing into her face. Her skin looks warm and scrubbed clean. She must have spent hours in a tub to get her skin so spotless.

You shiver. You can’t tell if the girl’s nails are as filthy as your own, because they are wrapped in gloves of the softest calfskin.

“May we look at your owl?” the father asks.

Alvarr stoops low to give the father a better view. The father coos and strokes the owl’s head, while the mother clutches a hand to her mouth, crying, “It’s friendly?”

“I want to pet it,” the daughter says. Her eyes brighten when the father hoists her into his arms. She bites her glove and removes it from a pale white hand that looks as if it has never known the rank water of the wash bucket. The smooth skin has never been wrinkled from dragging the scrub-brush over the cracked tiles of the landlord’s house. It had never felt the warm blood flowing sticky from an enemy’s neck.

The girl pets the owl more roughly than she should, but no one takes the time to warn her.

You wait to see if she will come away with all her fingers and eyes intact.

After a few strokes, the father decides he has held his daughter long enough. He leans low to let her feet touch the ground.

With his left hand, Alvarr removes his hat and extends it to the visitors. Caught off-guard by the request for a donation, the father coughs and rummages through his pockets, looking for a spare coin.

Your eyes widen. The gold piece will be enough to buy a loaf of bread. Your belly rumbles at the thought of warm dough that you will tear at with your teeth.

But you have work to do.

You help the daughter straighten her cloak. The girl stumbles backwards, trying to escape your filthy hands.

The father drops the coin into Alvarr’s hat before hurrying away with his family. The daughter doesn't glance back at you as she leaves.

Alvarr gives them a little bow.

Elvira…

Catriona…

Gwynna…

“Come, Enmyria,” Alvarr says, taking the piece of gold from his hat. He wends his way through the crowded marketplace in search of more unsuspecting victims.

You follow him with a fistful of stolen coins.


End file.
